The Will Makes The Work; Or, Consent Makes The Cure.

Although we cannot turn the fervent fit
Of sin, we must strive 'gainst the stream of it;
And howsoe'er we have the conquest miss'd,
'Tis for our glory that we did resist.

When man is punish'd, he is plagued still,
Not for the fault of nature, but of will.

For all our works a recompence is sure;
'Tis sweet to think on what was hard t'endure.

Afflictions bring us joy in times to come,
When sins, by stripes, to us grow wearisome.

In the hope of ease to come,
Let's endure one martyrdom.

Love-sick I am, and must endure
A desperate grief, that finds no cure.
Ah me! I try; and trying, prove
No herbs have power to cure love.
Only one sovereign salve I know,
And that is death, the end of woe.